casts and moves,
casts and moves,
casts,
and moves you
it is time, now,
for those pen nibs to float and follow
and move you
in those dreams
they live there in that place
with the stopped clocks,
the ruined notebooks,
and all the other old analogue things -
it's all hands and shafts and ruled lines lucid, now,
but pointing where?
they point two ways,
but right all day,
but it's your hands, now,
and it's here,
with all the pigment you know, you see,
that will not wash,
not ever
the story: a priori,
you cried tears of archival ink
your grief all over hands and bodies
and bodies of -
you let it dry -
while you were thinking of inversions
searching for bodies of
and hands and bodies -
a body tender enough
to revive it
and all the while you were standing over it
all sweat and tears - then it struck you -
it struck you right in the neck -
one seven, one seven, one seven, one seven,
you know it's true before
the pain eats the shock
because green water looks wrong when you paint it green - you know it's blue -
it is meant to be blue
this was it all along: one hand
always washes the other
other things said
i was trying to get something like this down for a while, the recent conscience round piece helped